


Birch

by aderyn



Series: Balsam and Birch [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Homecoming, Nature, Reconciliation, Wilderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:55:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aderyn/pseuds/aderyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first forest, the primeval, the one that after they’d always come back to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Snow Queen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/752877) by [faerymorstan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/faerymorstan/pseuds/faerymorstan). 



> For the lovely [Jude](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wiggleofjudas/pseuds/wiggleofjudas), thank you so much for inviting me into the wilds of your [Snow Queen ‘verse](http://archiveofourown.org/series/43371), magical fractured fairy tale-place that it is. These are set during a voyage home, in the [ “Breath”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/752877/chapters/1435199) chapter of [The Snow Queen.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/752877/chapters/1406013)

 

The forest is evergreen, granites, a faint fungal scent that says _North._ They’re still walking. South through balsam and birch to the place where their hearts live. Riverstone and rose. The cottage where John planted roses and mourned into a fist of blossom, bent his head into his own hands, much earlier the meadow where he let his fingers catch first in Sherlock’s hair. That first forest, the primeval, the one that after they’d always come back to.

“I’d have given you anything then,” John says, curls a cold hand around a wrist.

“And now?” Sherlock says, blinks, tongue burnt with _rose otto_.

Separation is a word these woods know. Lakes lonely with loons. Snow-wastes dogging their steps with heavy breath.

_How many times have you been parted how many._

_Divided by war, by magic, by love._

_How many more._

Boots crush needles, take on rime. They bend, share their hot breath against it, the wreckage of weather and whispers and time.

“Never again except in death,” John says to the wind.

_And not even then._

Sherlock takes up a feather from the snow, slips it into John’s pocket.

John twists a crown of holly. Sets it on a stone among the ghost-trunks, an offering. Twines their hands and points them south to their home, their hearth, through balsam and birch.


End file.
